


Dandelions with Teeth

by Ki_ru



Series: Into the Lion's Den [2]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Denial, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Non-Explicit, Psychological Trauma, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Relationships, on both sides tbh, poor Blitz, two disasters and no relief in sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: Neither of them knows what to do with themselves or each other and outside influence proves unsuccessful. After a night goes horribly wrong, it's time to set some rules.
Relationships: Dominic "Bandit" Brunsmeier/Olivier "Lion" Flament
Series: Into the Lion's Den [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1358311
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Dandelions with Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> This is the series' second part which was previously only accessible [on my Tumblr](https://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/). For the sake of completion, I've re-posted it here :) Please enjoy! ❤

“You’re gonna saw through your tendons eventually if you keep this up”, Bandit points out while brushing over the bandages covering pale wrists. No matter what he does, they end up bruised or bloody, scratched or cut because either Lion doesn’t learn or likes hurting himself a little too much. It’s probably a mixture of both, Bandit has noticed the scars despite how faded they are – he knows what to look for. They’re silvery stripes, paper thin and forming a tight ladder down Lion’s thighs, an easy-to-reach place where it’s not obvious to anyone who won’t see him naked and can even be hidden while swimming, unlike other common places like upper or lower arms or just below the ribs. Bandit didn’t go swimming a lot as a young adult.

There’s nothing on Lion’s wrists, however. No long vertical stripe, so it was less genuine death wish and rather a cry for help which probably went unanswered. It usually does.

When the redhead doesn’t answer for a while, Bandit peers down at him. They’re lying in bed, sated, Bandit satisfied and Lion aching, somehow always ending up pressed against each other – Lion extremely reluctantly in the beginning, usually taking the first opportunity to flee, though he got used to it after the first few times. Right now, he’s glued to Bandit’s side, head resting on his shoulder and limbs thrown over him. He seems shorter than he actually is in these moments, younger, too. His breathing is shallow and regular, his eyes are closed and his lips slightly parted; he’s a sight to behold, reddish brown hair mussed up, lashes fanned out over blushing cheekbones, rosy lips swollen still.

The fucker’s asleep.

Bandit sighs, annoyed, and begins untangling himself from Lion’s grasp, wavers when it tightens for a moment but ends up escaping nonetheless. He shoves a pillow into Lion’s arms which they automatically hug and starts cleaning up the room. There’s drool, sweat, precum and actual come on the floor, that goes first so he doesn’t slip on it. Next, the toys, cane, ropes, all the filthy things which he throws back into the box, then he returns the everyday objects like candles and scissors to where they came from. Once he’s done, he tosses Lion’s clothes onto the foot of the bed and goes to raid his freezer. Their sessions usually leave him ravenous.

He keeps coming back. No matter what Bandit does, no matter how much he personally humiliates him, exposes his flaws, insults him, no matter how much pain he causes, Lion keeps coming back to him. He cries, hides his face in shame, screams, whimpers, begs, shakes his head and fights, yet Bandit is the one to whom he clings after it’s all done. He soaks up every little bit of validation like a sponge, even if it’s just a nod or an appreciative pat; he’s started leaning into Bandit’s touches, not only _during_ when he’s starved for affirmation but also afterwards, pressing himself against Bandit’s body and trembling nervously until he gives in and holds him.

He always gives in.

It’s a fucking bad idea. It’s one of the worst ideas Bandit has ever had, he should’ve left it at that very first encounter because that one at least went by his own rules, ferociously ripped Lion back to reality and showed him unambiguously that he’s not in charge, that Bandit could ruin him whenever he wanted, that he’s nothing. Knock him down a peg. He began losing control over it as soon as he accepted him back, foolishly assuming he’s feeding his own desires when none of it would’ve been possible without Lion approaching him first. There was a shift in power. In a way, Bandit is merely _allowed_ to do what he does now, and he’s even predictable. He makes Lion come at the end, unfailingly brings them both to an orgasm which blows both their minds, and once that’s happened, it’s over. No more pain, no more distress, instead it’s softer words, reassuring touches. No wonder Lion returns – Bandit is _safe_. He knows what to expect, roughly, knows they’ll end up sharing body heat. Knows Bandit always makes sure he’s ultimately fine.

There’s a reason for it. There are several, in fact, and they’re fucking _good_ reasons which makes this all the messier.

When Lion is still sleeping half an hour later, Bandit plops down on one of the chairs and throws a sock at him. Since it has no effect, he does it again and watches, chewing, as Lion blinks with a frown, yawns, stretches and winces at the residual pain. His eyes lock on to Bandit and then the chicken nuggets he’s eating which seem to convince him to get up. His body is battered and bruised, his ass and thighs purple and the indentations from the ropes faintly visible still in some places; it’s like he’s been decorated, painted. In a way, he’s prettiest like this, marked and claimed by Bandit and only he is allowed to see him like this. Lion puts on his underwear and a t-shirt, just like Bandit, before unsteadily walking over to him.

He’s sleep-warm and grimaces as he straddles Bandit’s lap, discomfort clearly written in his face. “There’s another chair right next to you”, Bandit complains but feeds him a nugget regardless, slathers it in sweet and sour sauce first and then stuffs it into Lion’s mouth. He’s a solid weight, fingers toying with the hem of Bandit’s shirt as they eat in silence, digits touching bare skin now and then and Bandit almost expects Lion to start petting him. Lion gulps down all of the orange juice and doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon. “You’re heavy, kid.”

“Don’t call me that.” Of all the names Bandit calls him, this is the only one against which he steadfastly protests. He scoots closer, leans his head against Bandit’s and murmurs: “I called Claire yesterday. To… talk some more, I guess. Explain myself. Make amends.”

Bandit neither knows who Claire is nor does he _want_ to know. Thinking about it, he knows surprisingly little about Lion’s private life seeing as how familiar he is with his body – he’s aware Lion has a son but doesn’t know the story behind it. Claire could be the mother, Lion’s mother, his sister, a friend, who knows? “I don’t care about your fucking sob stories”, he tells Lion bluntly and massages his thighs until he squirms away in pain. Despite the harsh words, it’s self-defence and Bandit hates the fact that he recognises it as such.

“She hung up on me. But I’m still glad I did it.”

This is the most important reason why Bandit doesn’t turn him away, doesn’t refuse to play his game. There are other reasons but this is the only one that matters. Lion is young and lost, the list of mistakes alarmingly long – he’s a walking cliché, masks insecurity with arrogance, hides things from himself which Bandit drags to the surface, forcing Lion to face them, confront himself. He’s the worst person to do all this, has himself convinced he can’t stand the ginger prick and isn’t known for his empathy or compassion. And he especially doesn’t like that he both knows what Lion needs and even provides him with it.

He puts his arms around him, feels Lion relax at the gesture, pets his hair and says quietly: “Good boy. Well done.”

And Lion curls into him, leans into his touch and makes a muffled, content sound.

. 

~*~

. 

It’s a familiar scene, both contenders having clashed in the past already so it’s not as much of a surprise as it could’ve been. There are few onlookers, some who ignore the scene on purpose, others who seem just as unwilling to intervene and only one person trying to defuse the situation, stop it from escalating. Blitz is positioned between them, hands outstretched in both a calming and warning gesture – don’t cross this line, or else. His expression is serious and almost as angry as those of the two adversaries glaring at each other over the German’s head, their body language nothing but aggressive, ready to strike. Last time, it was the Frenchman who lost, humiliated by the SAS legend. Maybe now he’ll try to win.

Bandit walks over and earns a warning look from Blitz which is basically ordering him to fuck off, he’s got the situation under control, there’s no need to rile Lion up further. He has no clue that he couldn’t be more wrong about Bandit’s intentions and blinks disbelievingly when his teammate puts an arm around Lion’s abdomen and pulls him back, away from Thatcher, away from the small crowd sitting nearby. Lion is fighting against him yet more for show, Bandit’s presence alone leaves him imbalanced and seems to interfere with coherent thought, causing him to be manhandled without much hassle. “Kid”, Bandit starts softly and suppresses a sigh when Lion slaps his arm away.

“Don’t fucking -”, he snarls and lowers his voice, “- I _told_ you not to – this doesn’t concern you. Piss off.”

“Go apologise.” Lion’s ire shows in his pale eyes, so Bandit clarifies: “I’m serious, go fucking do it. Don’t argue.”

“But he -”

“I don’t care if he dropkicked your son or insulted your mother. Apologise. You’re on thin ice, asshole. Do it.” And he’s a fucking stubborn git, nostrils flaring and hands balled to fists so that everyone who takes one good look at him knows he’s not going to back off. Bandit quite obviously has to _make_ him. He grabs Lion’s sweater, right over his belly, over the place where he usually claims him, where there’s a lightning bolt temporarily branded into his skin right now, and pulls him closer. “He’s going to sock you if you don’t. And I’m not stupid enough to stop him, because we both know you deserve it, you little piece of shit. But I don’t like people laying their hands on my property. So shake his hand and walk away.”

He’s never done this. What they do in his bedroom stays in his bedroom, outside they never interact, walk past each other without a single glance, don’t touch, don’t talk, don’t look. They’re in vastly different circles seeing as Rook actively avoids Lion and often hangs around with the GSG9 whereas Lion is usually found in Montagne’s vicinity. It’s the first time Bandit is making use of this strange power Lion allows him to hold and he’s not exactly sure how it’s going to go, whether he’ll upset the odd, fragile peace between them.

Lion is returning his gaze, unmoving, before uncurling Bandit’s fist from the fabric of his sweater. “You don’t own me”, he hisses and Bandit thinks he miscalculated up until Lion stalks past him towards Thatcher, head held high. And hand outstretched.

No one expects it. The Brit gapes for a few seconds before he finally takes it, replying gruffly to Lion’s muttered apology and then both of them turn and leave without another word – disaster averted, fight prevented. Only now everyone is staring at Bandit, especially Blitz, brows drawn together in suspicion.

“What the hell was that?”, he demands to know after walking up to him and looks about ready to cross his arms.

Bandit takes out his cigarettes, lights one and inhales deeply before answering, ignoring the subtle shaking of his fingers. “No idea. According to you, _apology_ isn’t part of my dictionary, so there’s no way I would know.”

“How did you get him to do that?”

“Threatened to steal his kneecaps.”

Blitz is visibly upset now, angered by the notion of Bandit keeping secrets from him without even telegraphing it before – he tries to control Bandit’s every move, acts like he’s a bomb which randomly arms itself and requires instant disposal in such an event, even pretends he’s the only one who can take on the troublemaker of their group. Like a martyr. “Threats wouldn’t have worked. You never talk to him. What’s going on?”

He continues smoking as he considers the vast pool of excuses he could use. Blitz would indubitably realise they’re lies, they’ve spent too much time around each other to fall for this type of thing anymore yet it’d buy him time. He can stall, annoy him a bit and then walk off – with some luck, that’ll be the end of it, Blitz might forget or at least not bother him for a few days. They’re squinting at each other, cogs turning in both their heads and maybe Blitz has seen the marks around Lion’s wrists, noticed how Bandit looks after him now and then, because he whispers in a tone implying even he can’t believe he’s suggesting this: “Are you sleeping together?”

It might also be the last possibility left – there’s no way Bandit would voluntarily spend time in the Frenchie’s company, so they’ve certainly not become friends. He decides on a flippant answer and hopes Blitz leaves it at that seeing as he normally doesn’t show any kind of interest in Bandit’s love life. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m fucking him.”

His teammate is in utter disbelief. “And he _lets_ you?”

Under any other circumstances, it’d be a rhetorical question warranting an eye roll, maybe a quip, yet definitely doesn’t deserve any kind of answer. Under other circumstances, Bandit would make a joke, a smart comment. Right now, he feels the weight of their secret on his chest, the responsibility to make sure Lion doesn’t tilt, thinks back to the very first time. “No”, he laughs tonelessly and takes a deep drag more so that he has something to do while Blitz’ face falls in shock. Now he’s going to make a big deal out of it, that much is clear, possibly yell and put all the blame on Bandit when -

Well. He _is_ to blame, isn’t he? And it is a big deal. There’s no way he can deny it.

“We two”, Blitz hisses, “need to have a fucking talk.”

. 

He doesn’t understand. Like a stray mutt who suddenly has the door closed on him, all nutrition refused, no warmth provided anymore, he stares, concerned, uncomprehending. Probably thinking: _why me_? And Bandit has no answers for him because it’s been _him_ his entire life as well and if he’d found an answer, he’d damn well share it with everyone who’s as lost and confused and afraid as he used to be, as the redhead on his doorstep is now. He’s not inviting him in to avoid a scene, Lion would rather be caught dead than found yelling in a staircase where he has no business to be. He blinks, brows drawn together in a perfect mirror of Bandit in different stages of his life, moments on which he doesn’t dwell for good reason.

“Do you get it?”, he clarifies once more. “We’re done. That’s it. You had your fun, now it’s over, so fuck off.”

A small shake of the head. He’s not playing by the rules, not the rules Lion set for himself, guidelines neither of them have discussed and therein lies the problem – they’re ultimately hoping for different things, Lion for salvation and Bandit for … he’s not entirely sure, actually. For Lion to get his shit together. To become a person who doesn’t need to seek out Bandit anymore. In a way, he’s digging his own grave with what he’s doing – he craves that which leads to him being alone again. Figures. “That’s not -”

_Not how it works? That’s life, kiddo. We never get what we want_. “Don’t come back”, Bandit tells him and shuts the door in his face before Lion’s aggressive stance translates into a full blown fist fight right after he’s managed to convince his neighbours not to file a noise complaint. The walls are thick enough but Lion’s voice carries.

Blitz’ aghast expression won’t stop haunting him and neither do his words, expressing concepts which Bandit waved off dismissively, no matter how insistent Blitz was. _He like_ _d_ _it_ , he said. _He_ _seeks_ _me out_. There were a lot of uncomfortable questions with unclear answers, awkward silences and muttered curses from his teammate as Bandit regarded him coolly, arms crossed and waiting for him to be done.

But they reached him. It took a day or two, but Blitz’ words reached him. And so he’s shutting Lion out now. For both of their sakes.

Lion kicks his door so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t put his foot through it.

. 

~*~

. 

A fever dream. That’s all it is, surely, none of it makes any sense. Bandit’s brain cannot piece together how he got here, it’s drifting gently on the waves of heavy intoxication, the flood of alcohol coursing through his system. He’s moving – or being moved? – yet the motion is repetitive, preventing him from going anywhere. The ceiling above him looks familiar but it’s just a normal ceiling, there are no decorations on the bare walls though there’s a new-looking wardrobe at the edge of his vision. Noises are around him, floating in the air and diving into his ears now and then, especially on one side, his limbs might as well have been cut off with how little control he has over them. He weighs approximately a ton.

There’s something happening to his body and he’s not sure what it is.

It started out simple enough, fragments of the hours earlier flit through his muddled mind: a few pubs, familiar faces, then no more familiar faces. A brawl. His ribs are hurting. Some woman, her legs spread and lipstick smeared, face contorted in disgust – he slapped her, meant it playfully but prominent cheekbones invaded his head and so he brought his hand down harder than she liked. Much harder. She screamed at him and probably disappeared though Bandit doesn’t remember that part, merely draws the conclusion based on the fact that she’s not here right now. Someone else is.

Only then do the noises register as moaning. A hand strokes over his cheeks, urgent, a soothing hiss, _shhh_ , as if Bandit was crying or hurt, _shhhh_ , insistent against his skin, just like wet lips which nip at his throat, taste his pulse. He’s nauseous, there’s a faint ache further down and all he smells is his own sweat mixed with beer; he’s uncomfortably warm and just uncomfortable in general, his legs being folded and the hand is still there, feeling his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, and so is the reassuring _shhh_.

A fever dream. And he’s starting to wake up slowly, sober momentarily due to the adrenaline rush of not knowing where he is, with whom he is. Bandit’s head lolls around, falls to the side and the sudden change in view is dizzying, now he sees shoulders and a torso and can actually see what’s happening to him which in no way makes it any better. His tongue isn’t his anymore, neither are his arms or legs, they’re at the person’s mercy. And the only mercy he’s being shown is the gentle hand and the calming shushing that now and then devolves into a strangled moan.

He’s dreaming, surely. Because this can’t be reality. This can’t be happening.

. 

He wakes up mostly naked. That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern yet he’s being shaken, as if his pounding headache, desiccated body and throbbing pain weren’t distressing enough already. Not entirely sure what’s going on, he switches to auto-pilot and swats at the insistent hands until they’ve disappeared, opens his eyes and blinks dazedly at a face he knows very well. _I’m in Lion’s flat_ , he surmises based on the fact his surroundings are unfamiliar and as barren as he’d expect the Frenchie’s apartment to be, only to add: _The Lion’s den_. Hilarious. He would’ve congratulated himself with a chuckle if he had the brain capacity to spare, but as it is, he’s little more than a zombie.

Memories are fuzzy, so he decides on worrying about those later, allows Lion to pull him to his feet, even dress him. A glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table tells him it’s seven in the morning – much too early after a night out, that’s for sure. He stumbles around, greedily gulps down half a bottle of water when Lion hands him one and follows him, accompanied by prodding and poking to guide him in the right direction. They leave the flat, enter Lion’s car and as it’s still not fully day yet, Bandit sleeps some more on the way to wherever, head leaning against the cool window and jolting with every bump in the road, but he’s slept under worse conditions.

Surprisingly, he knows where he is when he pours himself out of the vehicle after they’ve stopped. Lion helps him get up, rummages around in Bandit’s pockets and causes an almost overpowering urge to punch him. The sudden impulse is overwhelmingly strong and he has to actively fight it down, struggle against it – he looks at the asshole assisting him in climbing the stairs and wants nothing more than to grind his face into the asphalt, smack it against the metal railing, hear his bones crunch under Bandit’s foot. It’s irrational, they have no quarrel with each other, not anymore, not since Lion knows to keep away, from Rook, from Bandit, from a lot of people. He clenches his teeth, balls his hands into fists and somehow makes it inside. Lion never crosses the threshold.

It’s a good thing. Bandit doesn’t know what he would’ve done otherwise.

The door clicks shut and he staggers to his bed, collapses on top of it and almost immediately falls asleep again.

. 

This time, he remembers. His thoughts have cleared up and the shock of his dream contributes as well, floods his system with adrenaline upon the soft _shhh_ in his ear – he wakes up screaming, kicking and flailing but is alone in his large bed. Breathing heavily, he looks at the hook fixed to the ceiling. And he remembers.

It helps that he’s more aware of his own body now, feels the vague burn around his wrists, notices an uncomfortable feeling in his guts. He knows what it means. Even if he couldn’t recall the guilty moans on his skin, the movements, the fingertips dirtying him, he’d know what it means.

He throws up until there’s nothing left in his stomach and dry heaves until his head feels split in two and his throat is raw and sore. After drinking more water and swallowing painkillers which immediately cause him to vomit once more, he nibbles at a slice of bread and waits for the trembling to subside. He’s freezing; even wrapped in several blankets, he’s ice cold. Eventually, he works up the courage to shower. Under the hot stream, he scratches his wrists bloody and scrubs himself clean thoroughly, meticulously.

He’ll be fine. It’s not the first time. He knows how to deal with it, knows what to avoid and what to do, it’s alright. Maybe after a few days or weeks, he’ll be back to normal.

Lion, however, won’t be.

. 

~*~

. 

“He’s going to have a meltdown”, Bandit tells his teammate without context and plops down on the chair opposite him.

Blitz is instantly suspicious. “What are you talking about? Who will? And why?”

“My Frenchie.” He doesn’t miss how Blitz’ eyes harden and his expression turns stony. “Don’t fucking give me that, you twat, I’m dead serious. You remember Baffin Bay? The fucking yacht?” A nod. They both know exactly what Bandit is referencing and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to spell it out, doesn’t have to get any clearer than this. It’s taken him almost a year to stop shifting the blame, to rephrase ‘you left me alone with him’ to ‘I was left alone with him’ to ‘I stayed behind’. He snapped – the screams still feature in his dreams sometimes, as do the crimson walls. It astonished him how much blood the human body can really hold. “How was I afterwards?”

Another rhetorical question and this one causes something pained to flit over Blitz’ face. Bandit is the only one brave enough to mention the aftermath, a mixture of destruction and self destruction ultimately halted by a series of worrying events during which he almost went so far as to harm one of his colleagues. He was walking on thin ice after the whole incident and, among other things, has Blitz to thank for dragging him out of the deep pit of depression into which he fell. “Horrifying”, Blitz answers honestly and it’s refreshing to get a candid answer for once instead of sugar coated simplifications, a switch of topic or, even worse, a positive spin. “How is this relevant?”

“Have you looked at him? Yesterday? Today?” The hesitation tells him everything he needs to know. “He’s not sick. He’s not just in a bad mood. He’s going to fucking break down and it’s not going to be pretty.”

“What happened?”

“Mind your own goddamn business.”

“You’re the one telling me about this. Do you _want_ me to get Six involved?”

Bandit rolls his eyes and leans closer, lowers his voice. “That’s exactly why I’m here. If he explodes, he’s done for. Six won’t trust him anymore. I’m only still here because you vouch for me, let’s be honest – and no one whom she trusts as much as you will vouch for _him_.” As far as he can tell, Lion _needs_ this job. A good part of his self-worth is tied to it and not only because he made it to where Doc is, no, it’s obvious Lion considers Rainbow to be the crème de la crème, the highest step on the career ladder. Getting thrown out because of mental problems would destroy him.

“So what do you want from me?”

It’s baffling Blitz still hasn’t caught on. “You told me never to contact him again. It was you who made me stay away from him, remember? I don’t want Six involved, so I’m coming to you. Allow me to talk to him. Allow me to defuse this fucking time bomb. And let me keep meeting up with him, he needs it.”

“You are so unbelievably full of yourself, Dom. Absolutely not. If I catch you anywhere near him, it’s over. You need this job too.”

He slams his fist on the table and it says a lot that Blitz doesn’t even twitch. “Mother _fucker_. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, but you do?”

“I _have_ to do this.”

“Why?”

“I’m probably the only one who even remotely -”

“Why?”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

Blitz fixes him with a level gaze, unflinching and without mercy. “Tell me what happened. What did he do? And tell me why you’re going to such lengths to help him. It’s not what you’d usually do. It’s not even what you’d do most of the time, especially not if you can just as well watch from the sidelines.”

He knows the answer to this. He doesn’t like it, not one bit, and still he knows it. So he starts with the ‘easier’ part. “I drank too much. I must’ve somehow gotten to his apartment. He fucked me. The next morning, he drove me home while I was still too tired to realise, so we didn’t talk. Haven’t been alone in a room with him since.” Blitz has the aura of someone who’d like to interject with something unqualified, so he adds: “I was unconscious for most of it, Elias.” Blitz’ mouth closes again. There’s a short silence during which Bandit struggles to keep still. He’s witnessed Lion screaming at Twitch first hand, calling her something which rhymes with her callsign and he knows the idiot usually harbours nothing but respect for her. He’s seen the wild look in his eyes, the bags under it, the shaking fingers, knows the signs.

“Jesus fucking Christ”, Blitz finally says and massages his temples. “None of this is convincing me to allow you to go anywhere near him, let alone not to inform Six right this instant, you do realise this?”

“Give me a week. I’ll sort him out.”

“Why should I trust you not to just skin him alive like you would anyone else who even _tried_ something remotely similar?”

And there it is. The question Bandit has feared, the one he avoided up to now – too much of a coward to even admit it to himself. He thinks of the quiet moments after, Lion’s limbs entangled with his, a snarky comment making pale lips curve into a tired smile, auburn hair tickling his skin. “Because I care”, he replies softly.

. 

Lion has never reminded him more of a wild cat, pacing in its cage, rearing to sink its claws into whoever put it there or whoever is unlucky enough to get too close. He refuses to look at Bandit directly, lets his gaze wander through the busy café, attracted by anything that moves, now and then flitting over to where Blitz and Montagne are sitting and chatting. It was the only way Bandit could be sure to get him to turn up – make the situation as non-threatening as possible: in public and within sight of a friend. He suspects Lion thought he’d do the same Blitz expected of him but lion hide isn’t what he’s after.

It’s strange, looking at him. Bandit is used to having the upper hand always, in the beginning due to his knowledge of how to get under his skin, provoke him into a fit of rage, later the much more tangible control of physically restraining him and forcing him to listen to whatever Bandit has to say. He lost it when he sent him away. He set him free and, predictably, the cat bit him now that he held no power over it anymore.

“We have to set some boundaries”, he announces while stirring his coffee.

“To what end?” He’s aggressive, thinks Bandit is here to accuse him and therefore is ready to defend himself whatever the cost. It’s counter-productive, so Bandit ignores him.

“No touching outside of play.”

Lion looks ready to sock him in the jaw. “The fuck are you talking about?! Besides, _you_ came over, you know. You threw me out of bed by knocking at my door in the middle of the night and you even tried to punch me.”

Justifications before Bandit even mentioned any of it. He’s losing him and he really can’t afford to. “Listen to me, asshole”, he hisses, “I’m not talking about any of it. _We’re_ not going to talk about it. I’m willing to give you what you want, which is the best fucking you’ve ever had on top of indulging your every whim about being beaten bloody – and you know I’m discreet, I don’t ask questions, I take care of you. You know all this. But I’m only gonna do it if we have this fucking talk, no matter how much you don’t want to.”

It’s the first time either of them implies their sessions have been to Lion’s benefit and not Bandit’s. He’s shocked into speechlessness but they both know he’s not far off the truth, not at all. And yet: “This isn’t what I want. I can’t stand your fucking ugly face, how narcissistic do you have to be to believe -”

“Cut the bullshit, I don’t have the time for it. If you really hate it so much, leave, as simple as that. You know I won’t touch you.” It’s a gamble. He’s convinced Lion’s aware of benefiting from this, now it’s just a question of pride – and the pretty boy definitely has an abundance of it.

“It’s _not_ that simple. You’re abusing me.”

“And you don’t like that? Alright. I can stop hurting you. I can stop degrading you, it’s no trouble at all, I’ll just cut out everything I normally do and then we’re left with vanilla sex. If that’s what you want, sure, let’s fuck missionary style and afterwards giggle like schoolgirls who did something forbidden. I’m down.” Lion rolls his eyes. He’s endlessly annoyed yet it’s not Bandit’s words alone achieving that effect but also his frustration about being unable to speak what he’d really like to say. Bandit is trying to make it as easy as possible for him but it seems he’s dead set on overcomplicating matters. “Look. I’m going to spell it out for you and all you have to do is nod or shake your head. Do you want to keep meeting up with me?”

Lion is chewing on his lip indecisively. He’s being forced to make a decision and he doesn’t like it – he seems to prefer being able to shift all responsibility and blame to someone else, pretend he’s being forced, justify it to himself as something out of his control. That way, he doesn’t have to think about any of it too hard, about why he enjoys it so much, about why he allows Bandit to hold this kind of power over him. He glances at Montagne again who’s laughing at something Blitz said, the two of them comfortable in each other’s presence. Both Lion’s and Bandit’s body language is tense, alert. Eventually, he nods slowly.

If he brags or gloats now, Lion is going to leave. So he simply nods as well. “Alright. Do you want to keep playing?”

A derisive huff. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“No. That’s what it _is_ ”, Bandit stresses, face serious. “It’s pretend. It’s not real.”

“The first time felt pretty real.”

It’s a sore spot and Lion nailed it. Bandit almost winces but stops himself, lowers his gaze regardless. “The first time was… selfish.”

“Oh, and the ones after that weren’t?”

“No. They were mainly about you.” He can watch the cogs turn in Lion’s head, trying to recall details. The kid must realise that a few things he genuinely hated weren’t brought up anymore, that Bandit kept a certain routine to which he responded well, that he always made sure Lion was alright afterwards. Well, mostly alright, considering.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“What’s your safeword?”

“Come on.”

“I’m not doing it if you don’t have one.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“No, _you’re_ being a little bitch. I knew you wouldn’t like it because it gives you control but imagine all the things I can try on you because now I know you’ll stop me if it gets too much. Also, now you can beg as much as you want and I won’t budge.” He can see it in Lion’s face, the question of _there’s worse?_ clearly written on his forehead, followed by an intrigued expression. A safeword is like a condom, ultimately it ensures both participants’ safety but it’s inherently unsexy, a mood killer – which is why he’s bringing it up now and not in the moment. You can slip a safeword on way in advance. “Choose something you won’t forget. Something easy.”

“Okay. Malfrat.” A French word which rolls over his tongue effortlessly yet leaves Bandit frowning. “Basically means bandit in French.”

Good enough for him. He tries to remember the way he said it, makes him repeat it a few times so he’s familiar with the intonation and can identify it even if it’s mumbled, screamed, muffled, slurred. Finally, he nods. “Good. Now to the details. Is there anything you’d like me to never use on you again?”

“What is this, a shopping list?” Despite all his complaints, Lion has calmed down considerably by now. He’s focused on their conversation, barely pays any attention to his backup and has stopped fidgeting. Bandit has shown no inclination to blame him for what he did nor to even mention it, and the prospect of continuing that which they left unfinished due to Blitz’ horror and sharp words seems to placate him. “I don’t like the whips.”

“So no whips anymore. Got it.”

Lion hesitates. “That’s not what I said.”

“Fucking hell, then answer the question. I’m serious about it, if there’s anything you don’t want me to do, now’s the best time to say it. What about the humiliation? The writing? Finishing inside of you? Fucking in general? It’s all fine with you?”

Lion ponders the question for a while but it’s clear he’s made up his mind, is merely working up the courage to say it out loud. His cheeks are filling with blood and it hits Bandit not for the first time how crassly beautiful he is when he has no right to be. His fingers are itching to make him squirm under his touch once more, the pent up desire returning full force upon him pursing his lips. They look so soft that Bandit wants to run his thumb over them. “You can praise me more”, he finally murmurs, visibly embarrassed.

Bandit _stares_. “What, during? Afterwards?”

“Both.”

This is – he’s noticed, of course he noticed, how could he not when every single compliment turned Lion to putty in his hands, tamed him instantly where violence riled him up at first. A lot of pain is necessary to break his spirit but it only takes a few gentle words to make him pliant, obey Bandit’s every command. He pictures it, forcing Lion to his knees with kindness, having him suck him off amateurishly yet eagerly, thirsty for every word falling from Bandit’s lips and so, so willing. The content smile on his face. The way he leans into his touches.

He’s floored. And yet he nods. “Alright. I can do that.” And with this, Lion seems satisfied.

It’s good enough for the moment. There are things Bandit can do to him Lion isn’t even considering, so for now he’ll err on the side of caution and not touch on any of them without explicit consent. He’s learned his lesson. And he’s fairly sure Lion has, too.


End file.
